


Psychic Driving

by Hypnosistrash



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Brainwashing, Hypnosis, M/M, Memory Loss, dubcon, psychic driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypnosistrash/pseuds/Hypnosistrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his plaything in locked Dr. Chilton's facility, Hannibal invites the good doctor over in an attempt to pry information out of him by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychic Driving

**Author's Note:**

> Contains Hannibal being terrifying and unethical, dubcon/noncon and hypnosis. I don't condone any rude shit that Chilton says/thinks, or anything that Hannibal Lecter has ever done.

Frederick Chilton had the Chesapeake Ripper in his hospital. The thought alone was enough to make him giddy, but the fact that the Ripper was Will Graham, high-and-mighty autistic with an imagination he used to envision murder… well, the deal became all the sweeter. When the stories began, nearly immediately, of brainwashing and double-crossings and Hannibal Lecter being a nearly literal monster, Frederick began speculating on book titles.  
An invitation came, as he knew it would, from Hannibal Lecter, saying he would love to have Frederick for dinner. He wasn’t surprised, of course; after receiving accolade after accolade, he could only imagine how poor Dr. Lecter felt; his neurotic patient now a (not yet convicted, but, well, close enough) serial killer, sitting warm and cozy in Chilton’s lap. And really, Chilton would never give up the opportunity to brag, particularly because, underneath the pettiness, he had to admit a grudging admiration for the brilliant doctor. So he went, and he chatted amicably with the good doctor over excellently prepared vegetarian food (some of the first he’d had, truth be told) and some even more excellent whiskey. Hannibal, ever the gracious host, kept Chilton’s glass full, with such subtlety that he came to not realize when it’d been refilled.  
When at last he began to feel that familiar tingle in his head and warmth in his belly, he declined any more, explaining he would need to drive himself home, and wanted not to overstay his welcome once dessert was finished.  
“I have prepared a dessert to be served with a specific wine,” Hannibal explained with a slight arch of his brow. “You are of course more than welcome to stay until you are once again safe to drive.”  
Chilton’s eyes flickered, paranoia and defensiveness and temptation and curiosity flitting across his face with far too little subtlety for Hannibal to miss.  
“If, of course, you are uncomfortable, do not drink, and leave whenever you desire; it is to your own discretion.”  
A muscle twitched in Chilton’s jaw, and he half-stuttered on the first syllable. “It’s fine! Perfectly fine, if you don’t mind the imposition.”  
A smile pulled at the slightest corners of Hannibal’s lips. “It is no imposition at all.”  
They ate dessert in the study, sitting in twin armchairs in front of the fireplace. The wine was delicious, and, in front of the roaring fire, lounging in the armchair, Frederick began to feel nearly heady. Hannibal was gazing pensively into the flames as they spoke, the speed of the conversation slowing as they spent more time deliberating their words. It was getting slightly hard for Frederick to focus, and Hannibal’s deep, slightly lisping voice was beginning to have a soporific effect.  
They were dancing around the topic of psychic driving, and though Chilton was eager to learn of any shady practices the great Hannibal Lecter was prone to, no matter how rapt his attention, he still managed to find his mind wandering off quite easily. He stumbled over a sentence, frustration coloring over the softness of his voice as he tried to bring any kind of intelligence to the surface. Hannibal laughed - a low, chilling sound - and told him to relax, there would be more than enough time later to discuss such technical topics. Times like this were for quiet speculation, not mental strain.  
Something defensive and petulant rose in Frederick, but he didn’t have the energy to maintain it, and so let himself settle, let Hannibal continue to murmur his philosophies in his direction, as his eyes watched the flames.  
He didn’t feel himself falling asleep until he was blinking heavily, head lolling, bits of dream flitting across his blurred vision. He was vaguely aware of Hannibal standing up and approaching him. He was sure it was to wake him, how could he have been so rude as to fall asleep, and in Hannibal Lecter’s home?? He struggled to open his eyes fully, sit up straight, make some kind of apology. But the shadow that was Hannibal Lecter leaned over him, and there was movement by his face, a click in his ear, and the hiss of a word he couldn’t hear. He felt his eyes roll up…

He became aware of himself in his room. He blinked, trying to clear the confusion. He had a dim memory of falling briefly asleep. Hannibal had woken him gently some time later, explained he should be sober now, just tired, and offered him a ride home if he so required. He’d assured the other doctor he was fine, apologized profusely, to gracious but dubiously sincere refusal, and driven very slowly home, where he’d splashed his face a few times with cold water to attempt to regain consciousness.  
He scowled to himself, throwing himself down at his desk to type up his thoughts for the night (for the book, of course) before he forgot them. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to fall asleep in the home of Hannibal Lecter; he’d be lucky if he was ever invited back, and he’d SO wanted to include a chapter or two on the man accused by the Chesapeake Ripper of being the Devil Himself…  
Cursing himself, he got to work, laying out brief summaries of the information Graham had given him, adding notes of explanation (for the less intellectually inclined reader, he wanted to be marketable after all) and his own personal opinions and interpretations of the Ripper’s assertions. “I suspect,” he wrote, “that Dr. Lecter, brilliant and slightly narcissistic, may yet know more about our friend Will Graham than we know. He is skilled in the ways of psychic driving; is it possible he was driving his patient deeper into his own madness, and if so, for what end? Did he know the consequences his actions would have? Was he perhaps looking to create a spectacle, and emerge the hero when the time was right? Only time and further investigation will tell us.”  
Satisfied with at least his writing, he collapsed into bed in all but his shoes.  
Frederick Chilton had very strange dreams that night.  
He was back in the study of Hannibal Lecter. He was aware of flickering firelight behind his closed lids, aware of a voice muttering something, and realized it after a moment it was him, dictating what he realized as his book notes.  
He managed to only-just lift his lids, and met the figure of Hannibal Lecter standing above him. In the shifting, hellish light of the fire, the shadows made his face seem skull-like, satanic. Frederick was gripped with a sudden terror that bubbled up from a dawning comprehension that was vying to burst through into his consciousness.  
The figure cocked its head, pinpricks of light reflected in its eyes, which Chilton could tell, even in shadow, were bored into him. It crouched, reaching out, and his chair was leaning back, and he still couldn’t move…  
The figure towered now, gazing down at him with the apathy of a god to a bug. It lowered itself to the edge of the chair, waving a hand across his face, his eyes rolling, slow and ineffective, in an attempt to follow it. The figure blinked, and the hand moved languidly to his throat, before prying loose the button of his collar. And the next. And the next. His breathing hitched as the figure spread his shirt open, and placed its hands with delicate precision over his clavicle. His muscles were still limp; all he could do was lie there, chest heaving, as Hannibal Lecter’s fingers played deftly over his skin.  
The movement was nearly scientific; he seemed to know, intuitively, exactly what Chilton’s soft spots were, and he moved over them with a gentleness that barely masked the cruel aggression of this torture. Nails raked over his chest, pressing into the sensitive skin right over his sternum, before moving out, pulling and twisting at his nipples until it hurt just enough to elicit a whine he couldn’t control, but the pleasure was there through it all, a sinister reminder of how his body was betraying him.  
The hands moved lower, over the softness of his belly, stopping just at the scar that snaked across it. One hand moved lower still, dipping below his waistband and hovering just above his shamefully hard erection. The other remained on his belly, drawing its thumb, feather-light, from one end of the scar to the other, while all the while the eyes hidden in shadow seared into him. The single gesture somehow felt more threatening, more terrifying, than the actual injury.  
The hand pressed into his stomach, hard, as a single finger was drawn over the head of his cock, and he felt his body let out a keening moan. He should have been humiliated, but all he felt was fear and arousal, and the confusion of attempting to discern which he ought to heed. His deliberations faded into a jumble of stimulus as his fly was undone, aching cock pulled free, and the shadowed hand began to pump with agonizing slowness. His hips bucked unconsciously as he mindlessly rutted into the figure’s merciless stroking. Up, down, up, down, a deliberate pace designed to drive his mind into muddled desperation, and his body into a frenzy. All his motions were involuntary; he could no more lift his hand than he could fly. At some point, the figure spoke in Hannibal’s sibilant voice, but he was too far gone to care what it said. He was terrified, out of control, and too aroused, god, please…  
He was aware, dimly, of agreeing to something, of begging, and though he didn’t know what he was saying or why, the more he did it, the faster and tighter the hand became, until eventually he was writhing, whining promises and pleas he neither understood nor remembered, but it didn’t matter, because he had spent an eternity needing nothing more than release, relief, oh god he needed it…  
He could swear he saw the figure grin at him as the hand moved faster, and though he should have come long since he couldn’t, and he knew it was because the shadowy demon that was Hannibal Lecter had not yet decided to allow it. The lips moved, noise that was words but meant nothing hit his ears, and he came, shuddering and gasping and crying out in loud, shaking moans, as he came in waves, and each wave hit his mind and dragged it under, until the orgasm subsided, and he was gone.

Chilton opened his eyes in his home, fully clothed, in his bed, the details of the dream evaporating like dew as consciousness lit his mind. He couldn’t remember much of last night. He was in a car, but was he driving? He must have been, who else would have driven him home? He’d… he’d had some ideas about the book, but his computer was sitting, untouched and half-charged, where he’d left it yesterday morning, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what he had been intending to write. He’d had odd dreams, but he couldn’t remember them now, and for some reason that disturbed him deeply. Attributing it to his overall fury at forgetting so much, and being so careless in the home of Hannibal Lecter, he stood, peeled off his clothes, and headed for the bathroom; for some reason, he felt like he really needed a shower.


End file.
